


(feed me) to the wolves

by dansunedisco



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, F/M, Implied/Referenced Abuse, References to Depression, Slow Burn, Wolves, bad people doing bad things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-23 05:58:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10713603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dansunedisco/pseuds/dansunedisco
Summary: Sansa dreams of a white wolf and a castle made from snow. The wolf is bleeding, blue winter roses under its paws. Its eyes glow red, and she is unafraid.





	(feed me) to the wolves

Villagers begin to die. Their bodies are half-eaten and mutilated, limbs torn, entrails strewn for all to see and grass turns rust-red from dried blood. Vultures circle the fields and there is a stench in the air now. It is death and decay.

A monster, the people cry. “In the woods! Tearing through the fields!” Teeth sharper than any blade, bloody foam dripping from its terrible, hulking maw. “We’re being hunted, my Lord. Help us, Lord!” They’ve seen it. They’ve seen it and it is cruel and hungry. They pray for mercy.

 

-

 

On the third day of the third moon in the thirteenth year of summer, a raven flies from the riverlands. The maester of the Red Keep wastes no time in absorbing the letter and makes haste to the King’s Council, rings of metal echoing in the halls as he goes.

The King’s Hand suggests a hunting party. “If the peasants don’t sow and till because they are afraid of some _beast_ ,” he says, voice measured and sure, “we will suffer the winter.”

The king does nothing but laugh. He cares little for his people, and even less about their love for him. He sits high in his keep where his word is law. He is absolute. He is powerful. Here, he is the beast. He is the sun and the moon. He is the only creature his people should fear and winter is far off yet. So he refuses the hunting party, and slowly, women, children, men, and livestock perish, one by one.

Dissent builds in the border towns, the stormlands and the reach. They decry the king. “We’ve been forsaken,” they whisper. They’ve been left to die. And it is to be said that man, when he has nothing left to lose, is willing to do anything for the justice he believes he deserves. It is not honorable to rebel, but they know little of honor. They are the smallfolk and they seek justice denied to them. Farmers grab pitchforks and steel and torches.

“They mean to press _me?_ ” the king sneers when news arrives at his steps. The messenger sent from his easterly lord cowers on bent knee. A golden rose is embroidered to his tunic. The court is quiet. They are always so when the king sits on his throne. They prefer the pragmatic Hand. He can be cruel, true enough, but his cruelty is nought compared to the king’s barbarism. Compassion has been an absent friend in these gilded halls since the coronation. Only the brave step forward, and sometimes the fools too. “Well? Answer me,” again the king demands.

His voice echoes. No one dares speak, least of all the addressed.

Finally, the king sighs. “Sing me your story, messenger.”

“S-sing, Your Grace?” There is sweat on his brow.

“Yes. _Sing._ Was I not clear when I spoke? Do you endeavor to anger me?”

“No, Your Grace -- you were very clear, Your Grace.” He mops at his forehead with his sleeve. “Please, Your Grace… I fear my voice would only offend.”

In the observation wings, Sansa watches and prays. _Mercy, Mother_ , she pleads. Her hands are clasped together, hidden in the folds of her skirts. They shake. The messenger has made blunder after blunder, and the gleeful gleam in the king’s eyes promises only pain. _Grant this young man your divine mercy. Protect him from those -- those… who mean him harm._

“Y-your Grace…”

“Quiet. Your insolence offends me,” the king snaps. His lip curls up, a mean little thing. “Almost as much as your simpering.”

 _Mercy, Mother. Show him mercy._ Sansa’s heart thump-thump-thumps. Fast like a rabbit’s. _  
_

The king motions for the Hound.

 _Mercy, Mother_.

The king is handed his crossbow. It is strung tight. He sets it atop his knee and aims. The Hound steps back into the shadows, gnarled face impassive as always. The messenger begins to weep. “One more chance,” the king promises. “You don’t want to disobey your king, do you?”

In the end, Sansa’s prayers are answered. The messenger quivers, silent and afraid, and the king’s bolt pierces his heart, quick and true. It’s a swift death; benevolent. Mercy enough.

Blood pools on the tiles like a river swelled from rain, and the messenger is dragged from the throne room after another careless flick of the king’s wrist. The body leaves a bright red streak in its wake. A servant scurries forward like a skittish mouse with a bucket of water and a brush. He begins to scrub; back and forth, back and forth. The soap turns to pink, a bright frothy foam.

The woman to Sansa’s left crumples at the sight. Only then are they allowed to leave at the urging of the maester. “The women, Your Grace… they are not fit to see such things,” he says. Another careless flick wins their escape. Sansa lifts her skirts to step over the king’s newest mess, mindful of keeping her hems clean. She holds her gaze steady to the floor so as not to draw attention to herself.

Only after she makes it to her chambers does she take a shuddering breath, but she does not cry. The tears wouldn’t come anyway, even if she willed them to. She presses her hands to her stomach instead and chokes on a dry sob.

Her chambers have a direct view to Baelor’s Sept. The sight of its spires makes her sick. She used to pray to the Father for justice; to the Maiden for strength. She does not pray to them anymore.

 

-

 

That night, she dreams of a white wolf and a castle made from snow. The wolf is bleeding, blue winter roses under its paws. Its eyes glow red, and she is unafraid.

 

-

 

Word of the king’s cruelty spreads, spurred on as fast as a horse can gallop and as far as a bird can fly. More villagers fall to the unnamed _thing_ that terrorizes them in the night and resentment festers like an unclean wound. It is not long before the scales of righteousness begin to tip in favor of the many. The Kingsguard are so few, when compared.

“You cannot ignore them any longer, Your Grace,” the Hand says while the Queen Mother drinks her sweet mulled wine, silent and smirking.

Against all odds, the king listens to his advisors, and they send a raven to the Citadel for council, and send word that a ten-pound purse of silver stags will go to the man who would fell the beast.

A moon passes. No man, nor men, come forward to reap the reward. Again and again, the lords of Westeros send word of ruined crops and the dead and an unfathomable beast that won’t cease its terror.

Two moons pass thus, and still: no men, more dead. Sansa listens to the gossip that ensues. There is talk among the court. Sellswords have come from as far as Volantis to try their hand at the task. Knights, too. None succeed, and the amusement of the courtiers quickly transforms into concern. It is said the king’s own uncle struck him across the face in a fit of anger. The Imp has not been seen in weeks.

Tonight, Sansa brushes her hair out with slow strokes, thoughts far away and to the North. Not so long ago she was happy. She can almost remember it; taste it. Now, the skin under her eyes is purple-bruised, and the luster that once gleamed in her Tully blue eyes is all but faded. It is not Sansa Stark who is reflected in the polished looking glass, but a sad girl. A stupid girl. _You should have stayed_. They are her words now, like _winter is coming_ is the words of the Starks. It is her touchstone; her remembrance. What she should have done and what she did not.

Her handmaiden putters around her chambers, sighing here and there as she fetches hot water for Sansa’s bath. They used to speak freely, but Sansa does not speak so carelessly anymore.

“Oh,” Una gasps, when she sees Sansa has unraveled her southron-styled braids. “My lady, please! I will fix your hair in a minute.”

“It’s fine. In fact, I would see to my own bath tonight.”

“But -- my lady…”

Sansa looks over her shoulder. She fixes her mouth into a semblance of a smile and says, not unkindly, “Thank you, Una. That is all.”

Una presses her lips in a thin line in return, a moue of unsubtle bemusement, but departs with an understanding nod and Sansa’s tray of uneaten supper.

Sansa sinks into the steaming water when she is finally, blessedly, alone. She washes her arms and legs, trying not to recall the sound the bristle brush made against the red, red tile.

In Winterfell, Old Nan called Sansa fair. “The maiden come to life,” she would crow. “Skin as pale as milk, colored by the light of the moon. Fairer than fresh-felled snow.”

In King’s Landing, Sansa pours water over her arms, over the faded bruises the color of yellow and pale green, and blinks back the tears that sting in her eyes. She was happy once. She doesn’t think she will ever be again.

 

-

 

A storm rolls in with the high tide. On its waves rides a ship with maroon sails. It drops anchor, caught in a swing-circle of its own making until sunrise, where preparations are made for its arrival into port. It carries goods from lands far, far away across the Narrow Sea and the ship is welcomed after their papers are stamped by the proper authorities.

A single letter sealed with a dove’s tail in black wax is brought off with the cargo, tucked carefully into the blouse of the ship’s yeoman who, before he left his own homeport, was charged with protecting it with the utmost care. He does his job and passes the parcel as he was bid.

The letter changes hands many times and many ways, carried by little birds, up and up and up into the Red Keep, its contents secret and unknown to all, until it finally reaches the place it is meant to go. The Maester of the Keep cracks the seal with his arthritic thumb and reads the black ink on parchment with rheumy eyes.

And, unbeknownst to anyone, because no one thought at all to inquire, the captain of the ship with red sails departs on westerly winds the very same day, his hand folded tightly around a gold-gilt coin.

 

-

 

“It’s all very clear, Your Grace -- all this trouble is a sign from the gods,” Maester Pycelle says, his voice shaky but sure. His favorite time of day is the King’s Council, if only because the rest of them must listen to him… if only for a while.

“An unfounded tale,” the Hand waves the statement away tersely, but the king leans forward like a lion measuring its newfound prey.

“Tell me more,” he says.

Maester Pycelle clears his throat, a gleeful sort of pleasure settling in his achy bones from council sought. It is so rare he is called upon. “Yes, of course, Your Grace,” he says. “It’s the will of the gods, you see. A _wolf_ feasting on the flesh of Westeros. Stark repayment against the royal Stag.”

The king’s eyes flash. “And then _how_ do you propose we please the gods?”

The maester leans forward. There was an art to it all, weaving a tale before coming to its conclusion, and he’s had decades to practice. “Simply, my king, oh it’s so very simple,” he says, and lays out his grand plan.

 

-

 

Soon after, Sansa Stark is fetched from her chambers and the charges brought against her and her family are grave indeed. No one speaks in her favor. No one stands with her. She is kin with traitors, after all.

 

-

 

The Hound is charged with transport. Two more from his choosing are made to attend them. Arranging it all is a fast affair. Sansa hardly has a day to herself before she is hurried from the keep and into the oiled carriage meant to take her away.

Sansa’s tears dry up after a sennight. She can barely see for how sore her eyes are, but she is tired of crying. Her guards -- her captors -- give her no sympathy and no comfort. The Hound is as silent and cold as a statue. The other two chortle among themselves, surely glad it was not _their_ daughters sent to die.

 _Father_ , she whispers at night. _Mother. Maiden._ A foolish endeavor. They do not answer.

 

-

 

She is taken to the copse of trees. They’re formed in a half-circle, thick-trunked with leaves the color of blood. They remind her so much of the godswood at Winterfell she is almost able to imagine herself home, standing under the quiet shade of its tangled canopy, footfalls made silent by the hard-packed loam underfoot. But it is the smell that stuns her. A putrid, copper stench that lingers in the air, blown away in moments by gusts of cold wind.

The Hound keeps a steady hand on her elbow as she descends the wheelhouse steps. He gives her a moment to gather her bearings -- they both know she has seen worse -- and then nudges her along. She chooses the sentinel tree as her resting place. It feels peaceful; serene. _Let them sings stories of Sansa Stark under the sentinel. The girl who died for the gods’ cruelty._

The knights brought with them an iron pole, and the Hound, who is voted the strongest out of the three, clubs it into the ground. The mallet strikes solid, and Sansa watches as the pole sinks into the damp soil by inches with every blow. The high-pitched clank of metal on metal grates, but she never once takes her eyes away. It is a nail in her coffin and she will watch. She is brave.

When the Hound is done, he kneels at her feet. It brings them nearly eye-level. Sansa watches him impassively and waits for him to speak. He does not like to speak. She’s studied him for years -- the protector of the person she detests the most in the entire world -- and knows it’s only a matter of time before he reveals himself.

“This doesn’t have to be the end, little bird. Say the word. I’ll kill those two cunts behind me, and I will take you home.”

Sansa has no home to go to. Not anymore. Her father is dead, and so is Robb and her lady mother. Arya has been in the winds ever since her father fell; Bran and Rickon burnt by the Greyjoys. Winterfell, as she’s been told by Cersei, is nothing but a crumbling shell of its former self. Sansa survived because she had to, but now -- now she will finally be free. _I will be like a lady in a song_ , she thinks. Fair Sansa Stark, fed to the wolves.

She hardens her heart and turns away. Her answer is silence, and the king’s hound slinks away.

 

-

 

There is a village nearby. She can hear the smallfolk, the clink of their cups and their bawdy laughter. _Do you know I’m here?_ she thinks. If they did, do they care? Or were they content with the king’s answer to their terror? She pulls her cloak together at her throat. It’s a cold night and she is tired, so tired.

Then, like something out of a dream, she sees it: A pair of glowing red eyes in the distance. Her stomach clenches and her heart seizes before bursting. She gasps into her hands. The chain keeping her tethered clangs against the pole. The sound sings out across the moonlit valley.

The monster begins to take form. It’s enormous, and approaching with purpose. Fear scrambles her thoughts. Everything in her screams to _run,_ but her legs are leaden and there is nowhere to escape.

“That accursed maester was right,” she cries. Why else would this hulking beast be loping towards her? Pycelle called the manifestation of the beast a result of a blood-feud. Something ancient and before their time. She didn’t believe before, but mayhaps --

 _No._ She clenches her eyes shut and clasps her hands together. She can hear the monster’s footfalls, the low hum of its growl, its harsh panting. It’s madness, but, for a moment, she’s reminded of an old friend. _Lady._ Soon, they will meet again. She wills a swift death, and waits… and waits.

Nothing happens. She opens her eyes. And there before her, sitting on its hind legs like a regular dog, is the wolf. She cranes her neck back, looking up and up, unable to stop herself from doing so. The monster is truly huge, powerful as it is horrifying; the image of evil, however, is somewhat diminished by the pink tongue lolling out from the side of its maw. She exhales slowly.

It tilts its massive head, ears perked up and swiveling, and something itches at the back of Sansa’s mind; a memory long forgotten, a fact she previously thought to be impossible… _White fur and red eyes._ A specter.

Her father once told her that no man alive knew how large direwolves could grow. She smiles.

 

-

 

“I died,” Jon breathes into her hair, his hands holding her just as tightly as she holds him. “They murdered me, but I came back.”

Sansa can’t stop shaking. The shack in the woods Ghost led her to smells like rotted wood and swamp water, but to her, it is a palace. She holds Jon by the face and stares deep into his eyes, sad eyes that match her own. He is pale and drawn and his lips are chapped. He is the most beautiful man she’s ever seen. “You’re here,” she says in wonder. “We’re here together.”

 

-

 

His death was no metaphor. His scars are straight-cut, red and raised. She traces the edges of them with her fingertips. He shouldn’t have survived, and yet.

“There was nothing,” he says. Firelight flickers across his skin. It looks like fresh blood. “Only darkness. It was like I was sleeping… and then I woke up.”

“Here?”

He shakes his head. “Castle Black. I left with what I could carry and didn’t look back.”

“And you came here.”

His lips curl back into a grimacing smile. “Aye. It was mostly Ghost’s doing,” he admits. “Easier to follow than put up a fight.”

Ghost yawns in agreement, jaws opening wide and snapping together. He barely fits in his corner of the room, front legs crossed over one another, his massive head laid atop his paws.

“We’d hoped to find you,” he says, “and Arya, wherever she’s gone.”

“And you’ve found me. But I fear I was easy to find. I haven’t seen Arya since… oh, Jon, it’s been so long.” Her eyes prick with tears. Many moons have turned since she saw last their sister, but for the first time in years, she is not filled with despair at the thought but instead with hope. Jon is here against all the odds, and _she_ is here with him, too. Anything feels possible, attainable.

“We’ll find her,” he promises. “We’ll leave tomorrow.”

She believes him.


End file.
